


You Heading My Way?

by Bumocusal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Guilt, Hippie Castiel, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15902964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumocusal/pseuds/Bumocusal
Summary: When John dies, Dean inherits his rundown pickup truck. It's rusted, the windows won't roll up, and the bumper stickers belong in a conservative American's wet dream. When Dean is approached by a hippie intent on telling him off, he doesn't know why. But maybe it has something to do with the MAGA and NRA stickers?"Uh—" Dean grapples to respond.The Hippie doesn't back down, standing taller when he notices he's rendered Dean speechless. "I mean, if you wouldn't practically advertise it, I wouldn't have come over."





	You Heading My Way?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/rQa9Gnn). You guys helped me through most of this, encouraging and cheerleading. It's only 2k, but it comes during a time when I'm working on countless other fics. Pinefest, too. So look forward to that!
> 
> This isn't beta'd, by the way. So any mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!

Dean's driving on Stull road, adjusting the rearview mirror and fiddling with the radio in what used to be his dad's black pick-up truck.

 

John died three days ago. Nothing too glamorous, he'd finished his nightly routine of watching wheel of fortune—more so because of the chance of him winning the prize for signing up to their online mailing list and not because of lackluster entertainment. He'd taken his heart medication, irony at it's best, and then played the already installed version of solitaire on his dinosaur of a computer. When it hit nine p.m., his normal bedtime, John went to sleep. He didn't wake up.

 

Caleb found him like that, walking into Dean's childhood home with breakfast from Pastor Jim and a carton of cigarettes. Caleb had set the Tupperware eggs and bacon on the dining room table, shouting from the bottom of the stairs. When five minutes had passed, he made the slow trek up to what used to be John and Mary's honeymoon suite.

 

The master bedroom had gone through different phases since the seventies, his mom keeping up with all the trends: Shag carpet, chintz bedding, and even a godforsaken waterbed. When their dad eventually moved it out, the damn thing burst and soaked directly into the shag carpet. As much of a fit as she had pitched, Mary had been secretly pleased they had to remove the hideous flooring. When their mom died—breast cancer—the bedroom had been left in an almost picturesque state. She was in everything, from the hand beaded curtains to the drops of nail polish on the new hardwood floor. John even kept her clothes in the closet and dresser. Last fourth of July, when he had his stroke, Sam and Dean had to change things around.

 

They threw out his old bed, put all of Mary's belongings into storage, and tried to fix every potential tripping or slipping hazard. They moved in a hospital bed, buttons on the side and an attached remote. They put velcro beneath all the rugs. They switched out all the doorknobs with levers—actually, Dean did. Sam mostly just sat around and fiddled with the rug taping. The kid has an allergy to screwdrivers. They hooked up a landline for his bedside table since John refused to use a cell phone. Sam even tried to get one of those electric stair lifts, but that was where John had put his foot down.

 

With all that hard work, Sam and Dean had foolishly thought they had insured the longevity of their dad. But, as Caleb shook John's cold shoulder that morning, Dean realizes they couldn't have prevented a massive stroke. The doctors insist that it was a peaceful death, instant and in his sleep. But Dean knew his dad and any death would have been a battle.

 

Sam and Eileen flew out from California, just like they did when John had his first stroke, and cooped up in the one motel this side of Douglas County. Dean drove from Lebanon, the impala sputtering and begging for an oil change the entire way. She wasn't used to making long trips these days. He ended up staying at the house but was too high strung to use John's actual bed and decisively settled on the lumpy tartan sofa. Bobby and Ellen drove down from Sioux Falls but left after handing Dean a hundred for flowers and hugging Sam for good measure. Celeb, Rufus, and a few of John's old drinking buddies were the pallbearers. Pastor Jim and a stock preacher the funeral home supplied both officiated, it went kinda smoothly.

 

In the end, the service was short and sweet. Since John was in the marines they did a little intermission to lay the flag on his casket. Eileen cries silently, less for John and more for the parents she had lost. Sam strokes her hair comfortingly, putting on a big face when Dean knows the kid would be sobbing if he were on his own. And Dean just sits there, fold out chair hard on his backside, stonefaced with dry eyes.

 

He knows he should be feeling something—angry, happy, sad—His dad just died for fuck's sake. But really, he's normal. The wind is blowing into the windows because they won't roll up and the radio is blasting some serious static melodies, and it's just like every other day. Well, almost, the Impala is sitting back in Lawrence in the driveway. She totally smoked out on him when he was peeling out of the city, partially through Clinton when she blew, hence his vehicle changeup. The truck was willed to him according to some small town lawyer with a bald spot and dirty fingernails—everything else was left to Sam. So, he was driving to Topeka for some parts to fix her up. Maybe he'd even work on his dad's shitty truck instead of driving it off a cliff like he wants.

 

He's passing by some podunk town, avoiding the turnpike with a vengeance, and he notices the gas light is red. Squinting at the fuel gauge, the arrow is barely skirting into the red, Dean surmises he has a good ten miles left in the truck before he has to pull over. Sighing, he makes a turn into said podunk town; Perry—"Have a Perry good time!", with a population of nine hundred. He ends up riding down a street with no yellow lines. The speed limit is twenty and the high school mascot is some dumb bird. Dean tries not to be too critical, but compared to the lazy bustle of Lebanon and the sweet summer quiet of Lawrence, he'd rather skip hayseed America.

 

Pulling into the first gas station he sees, Dean parks in front of the singular pump and checks the price: one-eighty-five per gallon. He snorts, not charmed by the surprisingly low cost, whipping out his visa and cringing as he sees CASH ONLY stuck over the card slot. Pocketing his wallet, he doesn't bother locking the truck since the open windows negate any measures for security. Walking into the gas station, the door's bell jingling with the movement, he beelines to the register and tries not to make eye contact.

 

"Uh, fifteen for pump one," Dean says, sliding over a ten and a five.

 

The cashier says, "We only have one pump, dude."

 

Dean takes his receipt without thanks, practically sprinting out of the building and over to the truck.

 

John's truck is a monstrosity. Where the Impala is gleaming and well kept, except for Dean ignoring her bleating to be oiled, the truck is a rust bucket. It can barely push fifty on a good day, has cigarette burns all over the interior, and has these hideous bumper stickers Dean wishes he knew how to scrape off. The worst offenders were the MAGA and NRA window stickers, an honorary vote being the very subtle "Hillary for prison 2016." Maybe that's why he can't feel anything, the one item his dad left him was a literal embodiment for everything Dean wasn't?

 

Or maybe it's the fact that Sam got everything. The kid left home as soon as he turned eighteen, he screamed at dad more than he breathed, he didn't even invite the old bastard to his and Eileen's wedding and John still, to his very end, liked the kid more. Sam got their childhood home, the rundown garden Mary spent ages trying to grow things out of, the silverware Dean thought about stealing when he was sixteen and an idiot. Sam was left all of Mary's recipes, some storage units across the united states, and Dean bets if John still owned the Impala—he would've given her to Sam, too.

 

John was the type of guy to not love his kids right. Maybe it was something he lost when he was deployed but he seemed to love Mary just fine, and that was the kind of love you'd read in romance novels—Dean remembers thinking how when his mom died, John probably wouldn't be that far behind. With his kids, however, John had a difficult time. Even when mom was alive, it was tough. They were both boys so he tried to teach them how to be real men, but that seemed to backfire when Dean started sewing and cooking with his mom and Sam grew his hair out longer than a girls. He tried to take them hunting, but as soon as Sam shot a gun it was a non-stop crying fest with Dean pouting in the corner. And don't even get Dean started on politics, every Thanksgiving was a new onslaught of crazy right-wing propaganda.

 

Opening the gas hatch, he unscrews the lid and picks up the valve. Pressing unleaded regular, Dean slides the nozzle into the tank and holds down the handle. He leans against the side of the truck bed as the tank starts to fill. The pavement is hot under his shoes. He watches the price and gallons go up, the pump having physical numbers behind glass instead of digital. They flick quickly like a flipbook. It's just about eaten all his money when a voice breaks through the muggy air.

 

"Excuse me."

 

It's too deep and raspy to be the cashier.

 

Dean looks over and freezes. He has to do a double take. The man is breathtaking, with bright blue eyes and a sharp jaw. His dark hair has wildflowers threaded through it and he's wearing some sort of tunic, bloomy and tie-died. His pants are stretchy and look suspiciously similar to Lisa's yoga pants. And, at the very bottom, stand two bare feet. Dean does several looks, up and down, before coming to the realization that he would like to bend this granola-looking hippie over the back of his dad's truck and pound into him like there's no tomorrow.

 

"Yeah?" Is the culmination of those thoughts.

 

The Hippie frowns with his whole face. "I've debated coming over here for the past five minutes."

 

"Okay," Dean replies slowly.

 

"My truck's over there and I pulled in when you were coming out." He throws his thumb over his shoulder. The truck is a brown and tan colored Ford with a Doctor Sexy bobblehead on the dash (which Dean wishes he owned) and he thinks that without a doubt it suits him. But his confusion must be obvious because the Hippie continues, "I guess I just want to let you know, I hate men like you."

 

It's a sucker-punch. Because what else could he mean other than Dean's bi-pride bracelet? It's hanging loosely around his wrist and unhidden by his sleeve. He forgot to take it off before walking out into Deliverance. Charlie talked him into buying it last year and he hasn't regretted it. Even now, with the literal sun shining on him from the beauty of this Hippies face, he doesn't regret it. Still, he thought this tree hugger would at least hop on the "it's okay to be gay" train.

 

Dean's struggled with his sexuality for years. He knew he liked boys as soon as he knew he liked girls. It was second nature, really. When he first watched Road House it wasn't just Kelly Lynch he ogled—Patrick Swayze was sex on legs and when he got out of that bed without pants, Dean nearly died at the sight of his ass. But growing up in the eighties and nineties wasn't the ideal time to be here and queer. In fact, Dean remembers quite vividly the way Jack Tripper acted on Three's Company. And he desperately did _not_ want to be that.

 

His onslaught of girlfriends was enough to tip Charlie off when they met in college. A new one every week. She first thought he was aromantic, which set off a bubbly giggle he had never done before. But when it was obvious he liked cuddling, handholding, and romancing the shit out of them over a cliché candlelit dinner—she changed her tactic. They came out to each other in the fall of two-thousand-and-one, Dean crying into a tub of cool whip and Charlie soothing him because this wasn't _her_ first rodeo. His last girlfriend had been Lisa Braeden over five years ago. They broke up because she didn't think he was serious enough about her son. His last boyfriend had been Arthur Ketch about six months ago. They broke up when Dean caught him jerking off to a picture of Mary he kept on his nightstand.

 

"Uh—" Dean grapples to respond.

 

The Hippie doesn't back down, standing taller when he notices he's rendered Dean speechless. "I mean, if you wouldn't practically advertise it, I wouldn't have come over. But it's disgusting and offensive and—"

 

"Okay, okay, hold on," Dean interjects, getting back his sea legs. That feeling of numbness he's had since his dad's funeral is slowly evaporating. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to this, you hear me? I don't have to listen to this."

 

"Oh, yes, you are," The Hippie cocks his hip, eyes squinting. "Because I'm not afraid to stand up for my beliefs."

 

There's the anger. It bubbles under his skin and comes out through his mouth, an explosion in progress, "Listen, Beatnik, I'm not afraid to stand up to a guy that's half a foot shorter than me with a punchable face and baby-smooth callous-less fingers. You mosey on along with that homophobic shit or I'll make you regret not wearing shoes. Peace out."

 

The Hippie laughs meanly, "You're calling me homophobic, Mr-Make-America-Great-Again?"

 

Dean realizes the miscommunication instantly.

 

"This isn't my truck," He palms his forehead. "Buddy, you're preaching to the choir."

 

The Hippie makes an aborted noise, "What do you mean it's not your truck?"

 

"It's my dad's. He was the Alex Jones wannabe, not me."

 

"Well, your dad is an assbutt," The Hippie says, cheeks flushed.

 

And Dean can't help but laugh, he bends over and braces himself on his knees. It feels good to laugh like this. He hasn't laughed this hard in years. It feels like the wind is being knocked out of him. "He's dead. He died on Monday. And you called him an assbutt."

 

The Hippie gapes. "I—"

 

"Buddy, calm down," Dean wipes a tear from his eye. "We've established that he was a blue-lives matter, Trump supporting, gun rights activist. And to top it off a homophobic bastard. You don't need to apologize for calling him the weakest insult I've ever heard. Assbutt, _God_. It's still funny. What's your name, man?"

 

"Castiel," Castiel says softly, a total switch up to his previous demeanor. "And, truly, I've never felt more embarrassed in my life."

 

"Nah, Cas, I think it was pretty cool how you were so passionate," Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, I didn't think it was cool when you were some bigoted asshole— but still, I kinda wish I had the guts to call out nutjobs. My dad was one and I never told him I was bisexual. And now I'll never get the chance to."

 

"I'm sorry." Castiel looks down, gesturing to the gas pump, "Look's like your tank is full."

 

Dean bites his lip. "It cuts off automatically. It's not gonna overflow."

 

Castiel nods, starting to walk backward. "Well, in any case, I've already bothered you enough. I should probably go."

 

Maybe it's foolhardy to still want Castiel. But that fiery streak, the way his eyes twinkle when he's passionate, how his ass looks in those yoga pants—Dean would be even more foolish to let him go. They've been talking for no more than ten minutes and Dean is completely enamored. He pulls out his phone, tapping to create a new contact and sliding it over to Castiel. It shows off his bracelet, blue and purple with a BI PRIDE indentation.

 

"Before you go, I don't know if you like men, but I'd like to get your number," Dean grins as Castiel comes stumbling to a complete stop.

 

 "Oh," Castiel peers at him with magnetic eyes. "Yes. I mean, of course."

 

 "Good," Dean tilts his head towards the road. "You heading my way, Cas? Topeka is a couple of miles away."

 

Castiel hands back his phone, clearing his throat, "I'm on my way to Kansas City. There's a protest going on at a planned parenthood, bunch of Christian and pro-lifers are going to berate people entering the clinic. We're going to be the counter strike."

 

"Need a hand?" Dean asks, taking out the nozzle and screwing shut the cap.

 

"As long as you bring your truck," Castiel smirks.  

**Author's Note:**

> (If you want to message me any prompts or just talk, my twitter is @ImpalaLostiel - I might even tweet about future fics!)
> 
> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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